


The Keeping of a Memory

by ImprobableDreams900



Series: Eden!verse [9]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Backstory, Multi, Some angst, The Fall - Freeform, some mildly gross bits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-22 23:20:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17672054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImprobableDreams900/pseuds/ImprobableDreams900
Summary: Two bonus scenes about Ishtyr and Harahel.





	1. My Memory, Thine to Keep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sonnet23](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonnet23/gifts).



> Bonus fic! For Sonnet23’s recent birthday, she requested an Eden!verse “missing scene” or something that I’d thought about but never written. So here’re two short stories that fill in some of the backstory for Ishtyr and Harahel, respectively.

In the Void, there was nothing.

Not Light, not matter, not the Word nor its God.

The Void was not distinct from the universe but it was apart from it, existing beyond the physical and ethereal, solitary in its otherness. While its neighbouring worlds easily lent themselves to the making of things, the Void was their antithesis; it was here that all things were unmade. Matter, spirit, life itself: the Void consumed them all, unravelling their very fabrics and pulling apart the delicate threads of existence.

It was therefore quite a change of pace when something stirred over the face of the deep, particles that had been cast apart drawing together again, an act of blatant Creation in the face of Un-Creation.

And then, all of a sudden, there was something there, in the blankness of the true Abyss, the Void itself giving form to something.

No, not something. Some _one_.

Ishtyr blinked open his eyes and saw nothing. There was darkness, but calling it blackness would have been a gross misrepresentation, since that would have implied merely an absence of light, and there was so much more missing than that.

He drew a swift, frightened breath—but, again, not a breath, for there was no air, only nothing.

Ishtyr stretched out a hand and, despite the absence of light, saw his own fingers splayed in front of him, their slender shapes reassuringly familiar. He touched the sleeve of his robe and was relieved to find that the white cloth seemed real enough, the supple fabric smooth under his fingertips, an island of reassuring reality in this sea of nothingness.

He turned hastily in the darkness, but there was nothing above or beneath him, or in any other direction. He flared out his wings—white and shimmering, as always—but felt no resistance of air, and when he stroked them a few times he felt no shift in the nothingness, the lack of movement incredibly disconcerting.

HELLO? Ishtyr spoke, and recoiled slightly at the sound of his own voice, empty and unfamiliar. HELLO? he tried again, breaths coming quick and shallow despite the lack of air.

He turned in a frantic circle, hanging there in the nothingness as he felt an unpleasant prickling on the exposed skin of his hands and face, like thousands of tiny needles just beginning to sink into his epidermis.

Ishtyr swallowed heavily and spun once more in the darkness, heart hammering in his chest. The tiny pricks on his skin sank deeper as, unnoticed by Ishtyr, the threads of his robe grew thin and began to fray apart.

V—VENUS? Ishtyr stammered, voice small, and the Void swallowed his words entirely.

 

~~***~~

 

The Void pulled impatiently at the strands of the aberration trapped in its midst, seeking to unmake it.

Ishtyr’s robe was torn apart first, the threads disentangling themselves before dissolving completely. Next was Ishtyr’s skin and hair, the inky fingers of the Void digging into the flesh of its captive and unravelling it slowly but steadily, gnawing at all the soft bits and leaving the stark white bones for last. So far the Void had spared only Ishtyr’s wings, which the angel had wrapped around himself in a futile effort to protect his body from the piercing, encroaching fingers that reached for him from the darkness.

Ishtyr shivered wretchedly as he felt himself being unmade, and he knew that there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

He hadn’t been able to close his eyes for some time now, could only stare straight ahead into the darkness that seemed to go on for eternity. He had called out into the nothingness repeatedly—crying out for Venus or his Father—but there had been no reply, not even the echo of his own words. It was painfully clear that he was alone, and would be until the darkness consumed him completely.

He was doing his best not to think about it as he felt the last of his ligaments dissolve, the Void chewing at what little flesh remained on Ishtyr’s bones like a hundred tiny fish nibbling at an unfortunate, drowned creature.

That’s what it felt like, being unmade: not like being burned alive or ripped to shreds by beasts or dragged across hot coals—it felt like he was drowning.

Ishtyr had no concept of how long he’d been hanging there, all alone in that awful nothing as the sensation of being smothered mounted, when he abruptly sensed the presence of another being.

He whipped his head up and shifted his wings back, somehow seeing the burst of Light off to his side even though his eyeballs had long since dissolved.

The Void recoiled from the newcomer’s presence, its probing, tendril-like fingers retreating into the darkness as the otherworldly Light grew stronger.

FATHER? Ishtyr asked with barely disguised hope, and he did his best to fall to his knees despite the lack of any ground upon which to fall.

The Light hovered there for a moment and then coalesced into a figure, and Ishtyr could have wept for joy.

“Oh dear,” God said, looking down at the skeletal form before Him.

FATHER, Ishtyr gasped in relief, too elated to worry over where the noise was issuing from, since his vocal chords were long since gone as well. PLEASE, DELIVER ME FROM THIS PLACE.

“My beautiful angel,” God said, voice fraught, as He knelt before the bowed form of Ishtyr and put a hand on his skeletal cheek.

Ishtyr looked up and into the face of his creator and saw the depth of regret in God’s eyes.

“I am so, so sorry.”

Ishtyr gazed at God, and it took him a moment to realise what He was apologising for.

NO. OH, PLEASE. NO.

“This was not meant to happen,” God said, still gazing at His ravaged creation with eyes filled with sorrow. “Please believe me.”

I—I—PLEASE. WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME? Even as he said it, Ishtyr felt the prickling fingers of the Void beginning to draw near again, wriggling invasive tendrils into what remained of his soul.

“Be still,” God said kindly, and stood, looking around Himself at the blank nothingness. “The Void is stronger than I’d thought.”

Ishtyr looked up at his Father in increasing desperation as God closed His eyes and reached out a hand, moving it through the nothingness of the Void like He was gathering invisible vapours together. Then He opened His eyes and a length of black cloth appeared from the nothingness and fell gently into His open hand.

God held it in front of Him and Ishtyr saw that it wasn’t truly black at all—it was so much _fuller_ than the Void, for one thing, and scattered with brilliant stars. God fashioned the cloth into a beautiful cloak and held it out to Ishtyr.

“Put this on,” God directed. “Wear it always. It will protect you from the Void.”

Ishtyr moved cautiously to his feet and took the cloak from his Father. The fabric was even more beautiful up close, and Ishtyr was surprised to see that the stars scattered across the heavy, soft material were twinkling gently. There were whole galaxies there too, he saw, swirling slowly on their axes.

“It is a portion of the universe,” God said. “A large piece of Creation. The Void is Un-Creation; so long as you wear this cloak, the Void will devour it instead of you. And there is much there to feast upon.”

Ishtyr looked from the beautiful cloak up to his Father and wordlessly wrapped the garment around his shoulders. His wings seemed to pass seamlessly through the material, and the moment the cloak had drawn all the way around him he felt the tiny claws of the Void retreat.

There was a moment of true relief, the feeling of being forcefully unravelled banished at last, and Ishtyr couldn’t help but let out a small gasp.

“I am sorry you have been here for so long,” God said. “I had one last piece of Creation I needed to finish.”

TH—THANK YOU FOR THIS, Ishtyr said shakily, drawing the cloak a little further around himself and surprised to find that the star-strewn material was slightly warm to the touch. YOU SAID THAT THIS—THIS PLACE IS A VOID?

 _“The_ Void,” God corrected. “Though technically the Void is out there.” He gestured around them. “The Void is not a place; it is an absence of place—an absence of everything, really. When I reformed you here, I had to make a small bit of _place_ for you. So this _here_ , this immediate area, is an island of Creation, though it still belongs to the Void. Think of it as a vestibule—still _within_ the nothing, but at its edge, able to contain the very last bit of something.”

Ishtyr turned that over in his head, struggling to parse what his Father was saying. Then a more pressing issue presented itself to him, and he pushed the matter of the Void to the back of his mind momentarily. WHAT—WHAT HAPPENED? Now that he was finally free of the gnawing presence of the Void, Ishtyr was beginning to think more clearly, running back over his most recent memories. I WAS WITH VENUS—IS SHE—?

“She’s alive,” God said, though His voice was heavy. “There was an accident. Do you remember what happened?”

A—A LITTLE. WE WERE TOGETHER, SHARING A CORPORATION. IT—IT— Ishtyr remembered the sensation all at once, the feeling of his soul wrapped around Venus’s, so close and dear, and he would have smiled had he still had any lips with which to do so. IT WAS WONDERFUL.

The next part of the memory reached Ishtyr a moment later, and it was like a slap to the face, the warm feeling in the pit of his stomach curdling. AND THEN—THEN SOMETHING WENT WRONG.

“I did not intend for corporations to hold more than one soul,” God said. “Venus’s soul overwhelmed yours. You were destroyed.”

A shiver went through Ishtyr, and he drew the cloak of galaxies a little closer around himself. DESTROYED?

God nodded gravely. “Your death created mortality, and you were its first victim.”

God took a moment to let Ishtyr process this before continuing.

“When you were destroyed, your self passed here, into the Void, to be unmade. Once Venus realised what had happened, she came to me to ask me to save you. It was beyond my power to return you to the world, but I was able to preserve you here, restructuring your essence before the Void finished unmaking you.”

SO—SO I—?

God drew a deep breath. “You are trapped here.” The words seemed to hang in the nothingness for a moment, frightening in their finality. “I have reformed you here, but you now belong to the Void, and that which has been formed from the Void cannot exist in the world. I am sorry.”

Ishtyr had never before feared the idea of eternity, but for the first time he truly understood the implications of the word, and was shaken to his core.

“The best that I could do was put you at the crossroads,” God continued. “At the place where the world meets the Void. You shall be the guardian of both worlds, a ferryman of souls.”

I—I DON’T UNDERSTAND.

“Mortality, once made, cannot be unmade,” God explained patiently. “All who die in the world shall come to you. Those who have only died in body shall have enough of the world left within them to be returned there. Those who have been destroyed completely shall come here to meet their end.”

…THEIR END, Ishtyr repeated hollowly, feeling that he was going to start hyperventilating again very soon.

“All things must now have an end,” God said. “And I am truly very sorry, but you are going to have to see them all. It will not be easy, and I would take this burden from you if I could.”

The Light around God began to dim, and He moved His gaze from Ishtyr, glancing around Himself at the nothingness. “I am afraid I cannot stay here much longer. The Void does not tolerate the presence of Creation for long.”

Ishtyr realised what God meant, and he hastily moved forward, reaching out a skeletal hand from the front of the cloak. DON’T LEAVE ME HERE, PLEASE.

“I must,” God said, voice tight as He began to reel His Light closer around himself in preparation for His departure. “You belong to the Void now. There is no way to cross over.”

BUT—BUT _YOU’RE_ GOING TO. AND YOU CONTROL ALL THINGS. YOU CAN TAKE ME BACK. Even to Ishtyr’s own ears, it sounded like a plea.

God gave Ishtyr a sad smile, the regret in his gaze unmistakable. “I can exist in either the world or the Void, but Creation and Non-Creation cannot mix. They are fundamental opposites. Even I cannot change that.”

THEN—THEN—

“I will be back soon,” God assured Ishtyr as His Light faded further. “I will speak with you more then.”

WAIT—PLEASE—WHAT ABOUT VENUS? Ishtyr asked desperately as he sensed his Father’s presence fading. IS SHE ALL RIGHT?

God paused in His exit to give Ishtyr a long, sad look. “No. No, she isn’t.”

And then God and His Light faded, and it was just the Void again.

 

~~***~~

 

Ishtyr had thought that he would be delighted to encounter another creature in the Void.

He was very, very wrong.

The first angel arrived in the Void early in the first day of the fighting, confused as to where she was, unnerved by Ishtyr’s skeletal appearance, and determined to return to Heaven to help fight the rebellion.

As horrifying as the news was that Heaven had broken out into open war, of far more interest to Ishtyr was the fact that, as the poor angel’s life had slipped away from her, Heaven had appeared in the Void.

Ishtyr wasn’t _in_ Heaven, but Heaven was all around him, visible and even audible but somehow out of reach, like he was gazing through a pane of glass at a world forbidden to him.

The visage of Heaven had appeared just as the slain angel appeared before him, there, in the Void. Except that she wasn’t quite _in_ the Void either, instead standing with one foot in either world, belonging to neither and both simultaneously.

Ishtyr had sought to comfort her—he had moved forward and placed a hand upon her shoulder—and had instantly regretted it.

She had disintegrated at his touch, his mere contact drawing her fully into the Void. He had felt the brush of the Void against the back of his hand as it rushed towards the unfortunate angel, unmaking her in the blink of an eye. He hadn’t even had the opportunity to ask her name.

When the next angel died, his initial confusion gradually giving way to fear, Ishtyr told him to keep his distance. Ishtyr asked after Venus, hoping for reassuring news in the midst of this nightmare, and was horrified to learn that she had changed her name and was in fact the _instigator_ behind the rebellion in Heaven. The angel hadn’t even finished his story before Ishtyr noticed the fabric of his robe beginning to fray.

Time seemed to work better when Ishtyr could see the world, viewing reality through the grim lens of another’s death, and he estimated it had only been ten minutes before the angel’s robe began to show signs of severe damage, patches becoming threadbare and beginning to fray apart. Already Ishtyr could see faint red marks on the angel’s skin where the Void was nibbling hungrily at its prey, eager for the feast to commence.

In the midst of his story as he was, the angel didn’t seem to notice that he was being unmade, though the discomfort was clear on his face as he rubbed distractedly at the backs of his hands.

Ishtyr could not bear to watch his fellow angel be eaten alive, and his cloak was only large enough for one. So he touched the angel on the forehead and was relieved to see the peacefulness of his expression as the Void consumed him.

 

~~***~~

 

“How are you doing?” God asked the next time He appeared out of the darkness of the Void.

DO YOU NOT KNOW? Ishtyr growled, not looking up from where he had curled himself into a ball, the cloak of galaxies wrapped tightly around what remained of his body.

“It is polite to ask,” God said, and sat down as well, apparently unconcerned by the lack of a floor of any description.

THE ANGELS FELL. It was not a question.

God took a deep, steadying breath. “Yes.”

YOU DID NOT TELL ME THAT I WOULD SEE HEAVEN. WHEN THE ANGELS DIED, I SAW WHERE THEY HAD BEEN KILLED, IN THE WORLD.

“I told you I’d made you the gatekeeper, set you at the crossroads.”

THERE IS A WAR IN HEAVEN, Ishtyr repeated, just in case that had somehow escaped God’s notice. I SAW IT. ANGELS FIGHTING EACH OTHER, BROTHER TURNED AGAINST BROTHER. SOME OF THEM DIED. THE VOID CONSUMED THEM.

God nodded heavily. “I am sorry you had to see it.”

For a moment Ishtyr could do nothing but stare at his Father, uncomprehending. _SORRY?_ DO WE MEAN SO LITTLE TO YOU—YOUR OWN CREATIONS?—THAT YOU WOULD LET SOMETHING LIKE THIS HAPPEN? THAT YOU WOULD _MAKE_ SOMETHING LIKE THIS HAPPEN? THEY SAY THAT VENUS IS BEHIND IT, BUT I KNOW HER. SHE WOULD NEVER DO THIS. THIS IS YOUR HAND AT WORK.

“I have done nothing to Venus,” God said, His voice irritatingly level. “She did this to herself.”

IS THAT SO? AND YOU, IN YOUR DIVINE _WISDOM_ , DID NOT STEP IN—DID NOT PREVENT THIS CALAMITY?

“Venus’s choices were freely made,” God said calmly, folding His hands in His lap. “I made her, but she is her own person, not a puppet in my hand. I do not wish to control her.”

BUT THIS—THIS WAR IS POINTLESS! SHE IS REBELLING FOR _ME_ , ISN’T SHE? SHE HATES YOU BECAUSE YOU DIDN’T SAVE _ME_. BUT I AM _HERE_. I AM NOT DESTROYED. THIS IS A WAR WITHOUT A CAUSE. SEND ME TO HER, EVEN TEMPORARILY. LET ME SPEAK WITH HER, BEFORE IT IS TOO LATE.

“You cannot leave the Void,” God reiterated. “You are no longer of the world.”

THEN TAKE HER A MESSAGE! Ishtyr shot back immediately, voice rising as he clambered to his feet as best he could. TELL HER THAT I AM ALIVE, AND THAT I DO NOT WANT THERE TO BE ANY MORE BLOOD SPILLED ON MY BEHALF.

God drew a deep breath and looked up at Ishtyr, their eyes meeting briefly. “It won’t be enough.”

Ishtyr drew a similarly deep breath, the lack of sensation not preventing him from reflexively attempting the action anyway. YOU DO NOT KNOW THAT. VENUS WILL LISTEN TO ME.

God climbed to His feet as well. “Venus is much changed,” He said, a tinge of kindness in His voice. “He has even taken a new name.”

THAT DOES NOT MATTER, Ishtyr retorted, the memory of their time sharing Venus’s corporation bright in his mind.

“It does matter,” God corrected patiently. “He wants you back, yes, but fully. It is not enough for you to exist here, in the Void. To him, you would be as good as dead. And you _are_ dead, even here—you are Death itself.”

NO, Ishtyr said. I AM ISHTYR, AND VENUS WOULD REJOICE TO KNOW THAT I EXIST ANYWHERE, EVEN IF IT IS HERE. I KNOW HER.

God was silent for a long moment, Ishtyr’s proclamation hanging in the nothingness between them, frightfully bold for words spoken against his own creator.

“I see all universes in the multiverse,” God said at last, His voice measured. “Lucifer is too upset right now to accept your existence here as enough of a response on my part. He would see it as a compromise, and he is not willing to accept that. For him, it is all or nothing. Your being preserved here is not enough for him, not yet.”

NOT _YET?_ Ishtyr repeated, latching onto his Father’s last words. SO IT _WILL_ BE ENOUGH?

“In time, yes,” God said. “You mean a great deal to him, that is true; he shall keep your memory well.”

WHEN WILL THIS COME TO PASS? HOW LONG?

“A matter of centuries,” God replied. “But there is more than just Lucifer’s mind to consider here.”

Ishtyr frowned at God as much as he was able. WHAT DO YOU MEAN?

“The angels who Fell have turned away from all that is good,” God explained. “They now reside in the Abyss, which has already become a place of torment. There is a way to return them home, to Heaven, but the circumstances must be exactly right.”

BUT CAN’T YOU JUST…JUST TELL VENUS AS SOON AS SHE WOULD BE RECEPTIVE? Ishtyr asked, a bit lost. SURELY, ONCE SHE KNOWS THAT I AM HERE, SHE WILL TURN FROM THE PATH SHE IS ON.

“Yes,” God confirmed readily, “but Lucifer was not the only angel to Fall. Those who have Fallen must be Redeemed in order to return to Heaven. But Redemption requires free will, and there is precious little of that in either Heaven or the Abyss.”

SO…THEN YOU JUST NEED TO GIVE THEM FREE WILL? Ishtyr asked, bemused.

“They already have free will; they always have,” God replied. “As you do; as do all creatures. They just do not know how to use it. I cannot show them myself, because I am not one of them. They would seek Redemption by turning to me, not searching for it within themselves. A message from you would set Lucifer on the path to Redemption, yes, but all the rest need to find Redemption as well, of their own volition. For that, there needs to be a monumental shift in Heaven and Hell’s thinking, something that will show the angels how to live freely, a revelation brought to them by one they recognise as their own.”

AN ANGEL, YOU MEAN?

“Yes.”

SO, YOU’LL SEND THIS ANGEL TO HEAVEN AND HELL, AND THEN YOU’LL TAKE MY MESSAGE? Ishtyr asked hopefully.

“I can’t send the angel myself,” God said. “He must show them _free will_. Everything he does must be of his own volition; my hand cannot be in it. And, if things work out like I think they will, he’ll be the one to take your message.”

WHEN WILL THIS HAPPEN, THEN? Ishtyr asked, anxious to learn the answer but fearful of it at the same time. HOW MANY…YEARS?

 _How many years must I stay here, trapped all alone in this endless nothing?_ Ishtyr added silently to himself. _How many years must I live vicariously through the dying, seeing the world I love so much only through the moments of others’ deaths?_

God drew a deep breath and looked Ishtyr very carefully in the eyes. “I am very sorry, but it will take six thousand.”

Any breath Ishtyr might have imagined himself having vanished, and he went very still, struggling to accept this awful sentence, almost incomprehensible in its span.

“And, even then,” God continued, the regret in his voice unmistakable, “I am afraid that you will not be able to go home. There is a way to save all those who have Fallen, but…I do not know how to save you.”

 

~~***~~

 

_Six Thousand Years Later_

 

In the Void, there was nothing.

There was also still someone.

Death was in the Void, hovering in the vestibule and ferrying souls to Heaven or Hell, working swiftly and confidently, satisfied in his work and filled with the knowledge that an ultimate Redemption awaited those souls sent to the Abyss. There was still suffering in the world, yes, but it was temporary, and that made all the difference.

But Death was also relaxing in Hell, brought there by an improbably powerful peach and currently going by a different name, a name he had used long ago.

Ishtyr grinned as a tiered silver platter piled high with pastries and cucumber sandwiches was placed on the table in front of him, Beelzebub reaching over from the other side of the table to shift the silver teapot aside.

“Thank you, Auguste,” Venus said warmly, rubbing her hands together in anticipation. “It looks absolutely fabulous.”

“Enjoy,” Auguste said. “I can have another round of sandwiches out for you after this, if you’d like.”

Beelzebub, already with two of the halved sandwiches in his hand, made an eager noise of agreement.

Auguste—ever the gentleman chef—bowed slightly and made his exit, crossing the length of the throne room hall and making for the large double doors.

Maybe it wasn’t quite the same as the Ritz on Earth, but none of them minded that the recipes were over a century out of date, and this way the three of them could eat together. Personally, Ishtyr felt that Venus’s policy of having one of them in Hell at all times was unnecessarily cautious, but he supposed it was better to be safe than sorry. And, if nothing else, it was convenient to have one of them on hand when administrative problems arose. Redemption really was a complicated old business.

“Oh, these are delicious,” Beelzebub said as he prepared to take a second bite of his sandwich. “Why didn’t we do this sooner?”

“Something about being busy with managerial restructuring?” Venus said mildly as she leaned forward to pluck a truffle from the top tier of the silver stand.

“Mhmm. ‘s more efficient this way.”

“I’m sure it is,” Venus said soothingly, taking a delicate bite of the truffle.

Ishtyr grinned as he reached for the silver tea pot. “Anyone else want more tea?”

“Please,” Venus said, moving her tea cup closer. Beelzebub nudged his closer too, and Ishtyr set about topping up each of their cups.

In Lisbon, a football enthusiast succumbed to a heart attack. In Santiago, an elderly grandmother breathed her last, safe and warm in her bed. In Bangladesh, a flood destroyed a small village and claimed five lives. Death was there each time, escorting the unfortunate souls safely on their passage through the Void, but simultaneously Death was also smiling in Hell as he handed two cups of tea to his closest friends, the Void always within him but himself no longer always within the Void.

“Here’s to the future,” Ishtyr said, raising his cup of tea as if for a toast. “Here at last.”

“The future,” Venus and Beelzebub agreed, and they clinked their cups together.


	2. Thy Memory, Mine to Keep

“Missing,” Harahel murmured anxiously to himself as he poked through a bookshelf in one of the rear sections of Heaven’s library, where the books on magic were shelved. He consulted the list in his other hand, where he had copied two dozen lines from the ledger that detailed everyone who had ever taken out a book, and found the call number of the volume he was seeking conspicuously absent.

Harahel’s eyes returned to the bookshelf and settled on the next book-sized gap, working out the call number of the absent book in his head.

“Missing,” he murmured again to himself, and then tensed when he heard a faint scraping noise from nearby, not unlike the sound of someone pulling a book from a shelf.

The library had been closed to visitors ever since Aziraphale had—ever since God had—well. Harahel didn’t like to think about it.

But though Harahel’s decision to close the library had initially been motivated by his sudden need to keep Aziraphale away from the books, it had turned out to have other benefits as well. Unrest in Heaven was growing, and it was beginning to exceed the boundaries of mere talk and differences of opinion. Earlier this week, a group of Lucifer’s followers had raided an armoury near the edge of the third heaven, and just this morning Harahel had learned of a bloody scuffle that had broken out at one of Lucifer’s speeches.

Harahel had no desire to cross paths with any of the insurgents, and even less of an inclination to let any of them into his precious library. Fortunately, his closing of the library had had the unintended result of keeping the library neutral and therefore relatively untouched by the rebellion stirring outside its doors. By extension, the building was also nearly always completely deserted, since no one was allowed into the main hall other than Harahel.

So it was with some trepidation that Harahel strode quietly to the end of the aisle and peered carefully around the corner of the nearest bookcase, towards the reading tables dotted with unlit candles. Bright light was streaming through the windows lining the library’s main hall, and Harahel quickly picked out the shadow of a person among those cast by the bookcases.

Harahel quietly stepped out from the aisle and started moving towards the angel-shaped shadow as soundlessly as he could, wings half-unfurled behind him.

The shadow quivered as Harahel approached, bending as though its owner were looking for another book on a lower shelf. Harahel reached out tentatively for an aura, his every sense on high alert, and when he recognised the presence before him he felt a sudden rush of relief and annoyance.

Harahel stepped forward, into the line of sight of the intruder. “Aziraphale!”

Aziraphale jumped an admirable two inches, arms tightening around the three books pressed to his chest. His head turned towards the librarian, an incredibly guilty look already settling onto his face.

“Ah. Ha, er. Harahel.”

Harahel arranged his features into an appropriately stern expression, stamping down his lingering unease.

Aziraphale gave Harahel a weak, almost apologetic smile and started hurriedly returning the books in his arms to their proper shelves. “Sorry.”

Harahel sighed, still too relieved that it was only Aziraphale to be overly cross.

Once Aziraphale had finishing divesting himself of the books, Harahel held out his arm to indicate the way to the exit. Aziraphale bowed his head and obediently started towards it, though he did cast the bookcase a longing look as he was led away.

“What have I told you about coming into the library?” Harahel chastised his ward in his sternest voice.

“That I shouldn’t,” Aziraphale replied duly, sounding put-out. “I just—I really don’t see the harm in it, and I cleaned my hands and everything.”

Harahel took a deep breath and continued ushering Aziraphale towards the library’s antechamber. “All good things in time. What did you think of the book I lent you?”

“Oh, it was excellent!” Aziraphale said immediately, brightening considerably. “But I finished it two days ago, so I was hoping to find another—”

Now at the antechamber to the library, Harahel raised a hand to cut Aziraphale off. “You’ll read only the books I lend you. At least for now. You must be worthy of knowledge before it is given to you.”

This last was the best reason Harahel had come up with for why he was restricting Aziraphale’s access to the books, and so far it had worked fairly well.

“I—I know,” Aziraphale said, voice suddenly wavering, and he fell silent, eyes on the floor.

Harahel’s mouth worked itself into an uneasy line. This was easily one of the worst things about the situation Harahel had found himself in: Aziraphale rarely argued with him anymore. Of course, he regularly disobeyed Harahel’s rules by sneaking around behind his back trying to find books, but he no longer openly challenged the rule itself, nor the reasoning behind it.

Once, Aziraphale had been incredibly vocal about his feelings on the nature of the library; it had even been his idea in the first place to have it be free and open to everyone. Harahel had been the one who’d wanted to keep unappreciative, careless hands away from the books and scrolls, but _Aziraphale_ —he had loved knowledge so much, and loved sharing it even more.

Unfortunately, the naïve, impressionable Aziraphale who had walked, utterly confused but enthralled, into Heaven’s library not so very long ago seemed to be adopting a great deal of Harahel’s habits and opinions instead of rediscovering his own.

“In time,” Harahel reminded Aziraphale kindly, “you will have full and free access. But not quite yet. Okay?”

Aziraphale nodded.

Harahel nodded as well, straightening up and wondering if he ought to tell Aziraphale to hand over the scroll he was attempting to smuggle out of the library under his robe, its shape bulging conspicuously against the fabric. It was likely from the same bookcase he’d caught Aziraphale poking through, though, and he knew that most of those books had been written by other angels, so he supposed that it was all right.

“What’s that?” Aziraphale asked, looking at the list in Harahel’s hand and making a rather poorly disguised attempt to divert the conversation from the matter of his rule-breaking.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Harahel assured him, glancing down at the list. “Just…there are some misplaced books from the magic section I can’t seem to find.”

“You’re sure they’re not just on loan?”

“They’re not in the ledger,” Harahel said, frowning down at the list despite himself. “You didn’t happen to illicitly borrow any books on forging multi-planar objects, did you?”

Aziraphale blinked at Harahel innocently, though a faint, guilty flush stole across his cheeks. “What? Illicitly borrow? Ha ha, uh, no, of course not. I would never.”

Harahel almost smiled, and then he caught himself and narrowed his eyes at his charge instead.

That was something, at least—although this new Aziraphale was more likely to pay lip service to the rules, his disregard for them when personally inconvenienced hadn’t changed a bit.

“Though if I _had_ , uh, ‘illicitly borrowed’ anything, it _certainly_ wouldn’t have been from that shelf,” Aziraphale added after a moment. “Not that I have, but, you know. _If_ I had.”

The corner of Harahel’s mouth turned up as he nodded and continued looking down at the list.

“I’m sure they’ll find their way back,” Aziraphale said after a moment, tone clearly pitched to be reassuring.

“Maybe,” Harahel said, unconvinced. Not for the first time, his mind turned to a group of angels who had frequented the library when it had still been open. They had been particularly interested in the magic section, and it was possible some of them had slipped a few extra books out without his noticing. Security had been quite a bit laxer back then.

“Well, I should probably get going,” Aziraphale said, edging towards the door and making a not-so-subtle attempt to obscure the faint, scroll-shaped bulge in the front of his robe. “Ambriel has me guarding Eden, and she’s not going to be pleased if I’m late again. Personally, I’m not sure why the place needs guarding at all, but…”

Harahel looked up from the list, barely stopping himself from taking an automatic step after Aziraphale. Though they had been friends since the very Beginning, Aziraphale seemed so young to Harahel now, so liable to walk unsuspecting into danger.

_Look after him, would you?_ the voice of God echoed in Harahel’s mind, a direct imperative from the Creator Himself.

“Be careful,” Harahel cautioned Aziraphale worriedly. “That Lucifer fellow and his followers are stirring up a great deal of trouble, and I don’t like the looks of it. Stay away from them if you can.”

“I’m sure it’ll all work itself out,” Aziraphale said, clearly itching to escape and examine his stolen scroll in private.

“Just…be careful,” Harahel repeated, the missing books in the forefront of his mind. “Please.”

“Sure,” Aziraphale said, and then he was gone.

 

~~***~~

 

There was a noise coming from outside the library.

It was a singularly peculiar sort of noise, high-pitched and oscillating in frequency like the noise a bottle makes when air is blown across its lip, except more pleasing to the ears. The sound had started up over a minute ago, and it was making no indication of ceasing any time soon.

At first, Harahel had tried to ignore it, keeping his attention on his desk and the manuscript he was studiously transcribing. It was one of Aziraphale’s, his writing neat and orderly, line after line of perfect copperplate handwriting. Harahel had come to know it very well in the days since he had undertaken the immense task of transcribing every book his friend had ever written.

When Harahel reached the bottom of the page he was working on and the sound had still not ceased, he turned his attention to the doorway of the library, a deep frown creasing his features. While the noise would have surely been irritating to anyone trying to get a spot of work done, it certainly didn’t help matters that Harahel was first and foremost a librarian, and as such he had a great deal more esteem for peace and quiet than was probably good for him.

So Harahel set his quill aside and stepped down from his stool, intent on discovering the source of the peculiar noise and putting an end to it.

Harahel crossed the library’s antechamber and strode onto the stretch of brilliant green grass just outside, scanning the surrounding hills for any potential troublemakers.

“Hello?” he called, trying not to sound too irritated, lest his tone should deter anyone from coming forth.

There was no response, the gently rolling hills just as quiet and deserted as they’d been when he’d stepped outside.

Harahel frowned slightly but turned his attention back to the strange, almost looping sound. It was louder here, emanating from somewhere off to his right. He strode towards the source of the noise, walking along the front façade of the library towards the building’s corner.

Then he stepped around the corner, and before he could register what was happening there was a flash of motion from very close in front of him. He was still trying to take an instinctive step back when a sharp pain exploded across his temple and everything went black.

Harahel came to quite groggily an indeterminate amount of time later, head pounding and ears ringing. It took him a moment to register that he was on his side on the ground, blades of grass tickling his cheek.

He pushed himself clumsily to his hands and knees, wings fanning out slightly to compensate for the shift in his centre of gravity. His head was still throbbing quite strongly, and he dismissed the pain with a thought, climbing unsteadily the rest of the way to his feet.

He was still at the corner of the library, the surrounding hills devoid of any angels. He looked around in confusion, searching for his attacker, but there was no one else in sight. He didn’t know how much time he’d lost, but when he raised a hand to his temple his fingers came away smeared with blood that hadn’t yet grown tacky.

It was then that Harahel heard raised voices nearby, accompanied by faint banging and thumping sounds. Speaking of sounds, the peculiar noise had stopped, and there was no sign of what had caused it in the first place.

Baffled, Harahel looked around himself again, but no new clues presented themselves. He returned his attention to the raised voices, but it was another moment before he was able to pinpoint the direction they were coming from, his head turning unerringly in the direction of the open library doors.

The doors where a thin trickle of smoke was just beginning to curl out into the open air.

Harahel’s heart skipped a beat and then every protective instinct in his body leapt into high gear at once, all thoughts of the attack on his own person immediately forgotten.

Harahel was not in the habit of running, but he sprinted as quickly as his legs would carry him towards the entrance to the library, brilliant white wings already beginning to fan out behind him.

By the time he skidded to a stop at the library’s threshold, the acrid smell of smoke was heavy in the air.

Half a dozen black-winged angels were dashing back and forth across the library’s main hall, tearing books and scrolls from shelves and casting them to the floor. A small bonfire was burning by the reading tables in the middle of the hall, flames lapping hungrily across the darkened, rectangular shapes consumed within its midst. Smaller fires were dancing along several bookcases, eating their way upwards towards the higher shelves.

All at once, Harahel remembered hearing of a recent attack by a group of Lucifer’s followers on a garrison post in the fifth circle. They had stolen a great deal of weaponry before their attack had been repulsed, and as they had fled the scene they had started a fire that had consumed the structure, destroying any weapons they hadn’t been able to take with them.

And, though Harahel knew that the library contained no weapons as definitional as swords and spears, it did contain books, and they could perhaps be even more deadly.

Every righteous fibre in Harahel’s being urged him into retributive action as he strode swiftly across the library’s antechamber, the power he so rarely used beginning to bleed into the air around him.

_“Defilers!”_ Harahel snarled as he passed his desk, his anger growing as he saw the full extent of the damage, books lying upended on the green marble floor and flames crackling more loudly.

Several of the intruders’ heads whipped around as Harahel raised his hand, gathering his magic to himself. He brought his arm downwards in a single stroke and immediately all of the fire in the room died, snuffed out in the blink of an eye.

The intruders scattered, many dashing from the cover of the bookcases to where a small heap of books and scrolls lay piled atop one of the reading tables. They began frantically dragging the books towards themselves, shoving them roughly into bags and scooping them carelessly into their arms.

Harahel took a step towards the reading tables and moved his hand to encompass the would-be-thieves in his next spell, intent on preventing them from making good their escape. Even as he formed the spell in his mind, though, there was a blur of motion off to his side, accompanied by a flash of black wings.

Harahel spun, his attention leaving the thieves just in time to see to the angel running full-tilt at him, a sword in his hand.

Harahel dodged the angel’s opening swipe and, with a deftness that surprised even himself, he reached out and grabbed the angel’s wrist, forcing the blade away from both of them.

As Harahel got a better look at his attacker, he was surprised to see that he recognised him: he was one of the group that had regularly visited the library in the early days of Creation, the same group that Harahel had so recently suspected of stealing his missing books. “Melchiel?” he asked in surprise.

“You should have stayed out of this, _librarian_ ,” Melchiel hissed. “I spared you once, but I won’t do it again.”

Melchiel tried to wrench his sword arm free of Harahel’s grasp but Harahel held him fast, staring almost uncomprehendingly at the angel before him. He remembered Melchiel vividly, recalled the innocent fascination on his face as he had sought knowledge among the library’s tomes, utterly captivated by every subject he turned his mind too. But what he saw now…

For a heartbeat, Harahel managed to meet Melchiel’s gaze as he continued trying to break free from Harahel’s grip, and Harahel saw in his darkened eyes nothing of the angel he had once known. All of Melchiel’s innocent curiosity and intellect had been stripped away, leaving only a twisted version of the angel Melchiel had once been, fuelled now by nothing but wrath and thoughtless ambition.

“What has become of you?” Harahel asked, voice suddenly hoarse.

Melchiel’s familiar face crumpled into a sneer. “What has become of _me_ , Harahel? _Greatness.”_

Melchiel finally succeeded in yanking his sword arm away, and Harahel barely had time to take a step back before Melchiel swung at him. Pain blossomed across Harahel’s upper arm, and it took him a moment to realise that he hadn’t stepped back quite far enough.

Harahel drew a slightly belated breath, eyes darting quickly to his injured arm and back to Melchiel, but the other angel didn’t press his advantage, instead taking a pace back, Harahel’s blood gleaming on his sword.

There was a loud crackling noise from behind Harahel, and out of the periphery of his vision he saw a burst of yellow and red. He took another step away from Melchiel and couldn’t stop himself from glancing swiftly over his shoulder, towards where a new fire was already beginning to climb the bookcase behind him.

He hastily swung his attention back to Melchiel, wishing he had a weapon with which to defend himself, but the angel was gone. It took a moment for Harahel to locate him again, sprinting out of the library with the other black-winged angels, most of whom had books and scrolls stuffed into their bags and clutched in their arms.

For a heartbeat Harahel wanted to pursue them, wanted to tear after them and rain down all of the wrath of Heaven upon those who had sought to destroy the one place in Heaven he loved above all others. It was no less than they deserved, after all.

But he could still hear the crackling of several fires, and feel their heat on his skin, and the anger in Melchiel’s eyes had shaken him more than he cared to admit.

Harahel drew a deep, unsteady breath and turned back to the ruins of his library. He raised his hand to extinguish the remaining flames and gasped as pain shot up his arm. He hastily waved his other hand instead, banishing the fire and turning his attention to his injury.

It was a relatively shallow, horizontal slice across his upper arm, but already blood was seeping from the wound into the slashed fabric of his robe.

Harahel swallowed heavily and ran his magic over the injury, shivering a little as he felt his muscle knit itself back together, the sensation unfamiliar.

He turned his attention back to his library, banishing the lingering haze of smoke from the air and taking in the upturned books scattered across the floor and the heap of blackened shapes lying where the bonfire had been.

Harahel walked over to the blackened pile and sank to his knees beside it, feeling too hollow even for rage. He reached out and carefully tugged free one of the books resting near the top of the heap. It hadn’t been in the flames long and was relatively unharmed, the binding cracked and blackened but most of the pages still intact. The same couldn’t be said for the books further down the pile, or many of the scrolls, which had rolled open as they’d been flung onto the heap, their delicate paper disintegrating at Harahel’s touch.

He began methodically pulling books from the wreckage, looking each one over carefully and then sorting it into one of several piles based on the amount of damage. As he progressed to the areas where the fire had burned more fiercely, he held the broken, blackened books with all the reverence and care one would show a badly wounded friend, cradling the soot-covered remnants while struggling to find enough identifying features to determine which titles had been lost.

Harahel’s heart sank as he recognised Aziraphale’s meticulous copperplate handwriting on many of the badly damaged pages. It was only to be expected, Harahel knew, given that Aziraphale had written so many of the library’s books, but it was a blow nonetheless.

Because, of all the books in the library, the ones by Aziraphale were perhaps the most truly irreplaceable. Because not only were those books a record of what Aziraphale had learned and experienced and thought, but they were the only surviving record of him as he had been before God had interfered, a record of the old Aziraphale, the angel who had been Harahel’s closest friend and utter equal. A record that had just grown considerably smaller.

Harahel sank further against the cool marble floor, sifting with utmost care through the bottom of the blackened heap, where the books had been almost completely destroyed. He pulled a few semi-intact pages from a crumbling volume and looked at them blankly, feeling empty.

“Oh, my friend,” Harahel said softly, looking down the handful of scorched pages. His eyes tracked, unbidden, over a few of the lines, picking out the names Venus and Ishtyr, and he knew that this had been the last book Aziraphale had ever written, the one he had still been working on when he had been called before their Father.

God had wiped Aziraphale’s memory and entrusted the newly naïve cherub to Harahel’s care, but Harahel had undertaken an additional duty of care of his own volition, a duty to the keeping of Aziraphale’s memory, the memory of how he had been, in the Beginning. A duty to the friend he no longer had.

Harahel ran his thumb gently over the edge of the scorched paper, a lump forming in his throat. “I am sorry.”

 

~~***~~

 

Harahel did a double-take when he glanced up from his transcription and recognised the figure walking unsteadily into the library’s antechamber.

“Aziraphale!” Harahel hastily dried the ink on the page he’d been working on and stuffed it inside a nearby book, tucking away the original sheet along with it.

“Hi,” Aziraphale said in a small voice as he walked slowly closer.

Harahel hopped off his stool and hastily looked his friend up and down, relieved to find that, though he was very pale, he appeared unhurt.

“Thank God you’re all right,” Harahel said as Aziraphale came to a stop only a pace away. “I was so worried. Did Ambriel keep you on guard during the fighting? Have you heard what happened?”

Aziraphale nodded, but there was a strange, distant look in his eyes that Harahel didn’t like in the least.

“Are you okay?”

Aziraphale swallowed and it was a moment before he replied, his gaze hovering around Harahel’s clavicles. “I—I got demoted.”

Harahel could only blink at him for a moment. _“What?”_

“I—humanity’s been cast out of the Garden. I…I guess it was my fault. Jophiel seemed to think so. He was…was… _furious_.”

“No…”

“They re-assigned me,” Aziraphale continued, face ashen. “I’m supposed to report to Earth within the hour.”

_“What?_ To—to guard it, or—?”

“Safeguard humanity, I think. But the—the angels who Fell will be there, surely.” Aziraphale hesitated, and Harahel saw doubt on his friend’s face. “Do you think the archangels assigned me there because they hope I’ll be killed?”

_“What?”_ Harahel said for the third time, heart beating rapidly at the thought. “No, no, of course not. Here, come in and sit down.”

He led Aziraphale past his desk and into the library proper, a room that was usually forbidden. If Aziraphale noticed this aberration from the usual policy, he didn’t give any indication. Harahel led him over to the closest reading table and had him sit down.

“I—I’m in a lot of trouble, Harahel,” Aziraphale said shakily, and for the first time he seemed to summon the courage necessary to meet Harahel’s gaze. “What am I going to do? I don’t want to go to Earth, I don’t want to leave you, and what about the library? There’ll be no books on Earth, and I—I just—”

“Calm down; it’ll be okay,” Harahel said soothingly, though he didn’t feel that it was true at all.

_Look after him,_ God’s commandment echoed in Harahel’s ears, as damning an injunction now as it had been then.

How was he supposed to look after Aziraphale when he was so far away?

“There was a Fallen angel who tricked me,” Aziraphale continued morosely, staring down at the table. “He didn’t seem so bad at the time, and I really didn’t see the harm in it, and then—then I was just trying to help the humans—and I lost my sword and Jophiel was so upset about that too—”

“What’s done is done,” Harahel said worriedly, biting his lip.

Aziraphale sniffed miserably. “What about you? Did any of the fighting reach here?” He looked around the library, but Harahel could tell that his heart wasn’t in it.

Harahel opened his mouth to respond and hesitated. He looked around the hall, which he had already miracled back to pristine condition, removing the soot and scorch marks from the bookcases and floor. There were many books missing from the shelves, of course, but Aziraphale couldn’t see that from where he was sitting.

And, seeing him now, so shaken and unsure, Harahel couldn’t bear to add another burden to the weight already bowing his shoulders.

“No,” Harahel said, patting Aziraphale reassuringly on the arm. He swallowed. “But you’ll need to be very careful on Earth, you understand me?”

Aziraphale nodded morosely.

“I’m serious,” Harahel said, moving around the table so he could look Aziraphale in the eye. “The Fallen—you need to stay away from them.” The image of the flames devouring Aziraphale’s words was all too clear in Harahel’s mind, and he could far too easily imagine the same flames devouring Aziraphale himself. “During the fighting, I saw—”

He hesitated again, his mind this time returning to the intruders themselves, and the wickedness he had seen in Melchiel’s eyes. “You can’t trust any of them,” Harahel stressed, letting his conviction fill his words. “They’re rotten straight to the core. One day, they pretend to be your friend, and the next, they turn against you. Don’t trust any of them an inch. Promise me.”

Aziraphale nodded miserably. “I promise.”

Harahel took another shaking breath. The idea of Aziraphale being sent to Earth, plunged alone into all that danger and uncertainty, was more unsettling than he liked to admit. With no one to watch his back, no sensible voice to keep him focussed—Harahel wondered if the archangels really had stationed him there with the hopes that he wouldn’t return.

“I—I need to get going,” Aziraphale said numbly after a moment, and began making his way to his feet.

“What, so soon?”

Aziraphale nodded unsteadily. “They only gave me a few minutes to settle my affairs.”

Harahel looked wordlessly at Aziraphale for a moment, and then he walked around the table and pulled his old friend into a tight hug.

“Be careful down there. And _please_ , come back in one piece.”

“I—I’ll try,” Aziraphale said, sniffling. “If I don’t, though, I—I wanted to—thank you for letting me read the books.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” Harahel said, his heart aching as he tightened his grip on his ward. “You’ll be back. You’ll be coming back before you know it.”

There were tears glistening in Aziraphale’s eyes when he pulled away, but he nodded all the same. “I hope so.”

“Just stay out of trouble and you’ll be fine,” Harahel said with all the reassurance he could muster, trying not to think about the fact that he didn’t know of a spot of trouble Aziraphale hadn’t gotten himself into.

They started moving towards the exit and Aziraphale paused in the antechamber, drawing a deep breath and visibly steadying himself. “Thanks for everything, Harahel. I’ll really miss this place, and all the books.”

“You could—you can always write your own,” Harahel suggested, trying to keep his tone light.

Aziraphale chuckled, and despite the fact that he was still just barely holding back tears it was such a reassuringly familiar sound. “Me, writing books? You know I just read them. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“You could give it a try,” Harahel said, wishing more than ever that he had the old Aziraphale here, so he could ask him what he was supposed to do. “It might be easier than you think.”

Aziraphale gave him a strained smile. “Maybe I’ll try it if I have time.”

Harahel opened his mouth to tell Aziraphale that he was going to miss him, or perhaps to tell him again to take care, but nothing came out, his throat closing on his parting words.

In the silence, Aziraphale sniffled and glanced outside, at the brilliant green expanse of grass. “I need to go. I—I’ll see you soon, okay?”

Harahel drew a shaky breath. “You’d better,” he said, and then immediately regretted his slightly glib tone as Aziraphale dipped his head and started towards the open doors of the library.

For a long while after Aziraphale had left Harahel just stood there, a terrible weight in his stomach, and wondered how things had gone so wrong.

Then he swallowed heavily, strode slowly to his desk, and pulled himself back atop the stool. He looked blankly at the closed book in front of him for a long moment before he could bring himself to open it. He pulled free the handful of pages he’d tucked away inside—some charred black around the edges and others crisp and clean, the sheets of silvery papyrus already bearing the first several lines of his transcription of Aziraphale’s original text.

Harahel closed his eyes briefly, steadied himself, and then dipped his quill into his inkwell and continued writing.

 

~~***~~

 

_Six Thousand Years Later_

 

“You’re right on time,” Crowley said as he waved Harahel inside.

The interior of the cottage was much the same as the last time Harahel had seen it, though his gaze was immediately drawn to a new stack of books piled next to the fireplace.

“Aziraphale’ll be down in a mo,” Crowley supplied as he closed the door behind Harahel, keeping the worst of the summer heat outside.

“He said something about us taking a short trip…?” Harahel asked, glancing at Crowley as he began to surreptitiously gravitate towards the stack of uninspected books.

“Yep,” Crowley agreed. “We figured it would be easier to drive over together than try to meet up with you there.”

Harahel made a noise of agreement as he reached the stack of books and began reading the titles on the spines, searching for any that looked exceptionally interesting. He’d only gotten a dozen books down before he happened to glance towards the main bookcase and his interest was arrested by a set of matching, unmarked black volumes that he must have somehow overlooked on his previous visits.

He straightened up and blinked at them for a moment before drawing nearer, searching for a title on their spines. When he found none, he glanced over his shoulder, intending on asking Crowley what they were, but Crowley had vanished into the kitchen, so Harahel settled for pulling the first book from the shelf himself.

Its cover was just as unmarked as its spine, though a small number ‘1’ had been written in gold pen in the upper righthand corner.

Intrigued, Harahel opened to a spread in the middle. He was greeted by two pages of careful, neat handwriting, the small lettering reaching all the way to the edges of the paper, as though the author had wished to waste as little space as possible. And the author…

Harahel had spent over a century transcribing Aziraphale’s neat copperplate handwriting, and he would have recognised it anywhere.

There came the sound of footsteps from behind Harahel, and then an abrupt silence, as though their owner had stopped dead. Wondering if he should be feeling a little guilty, Harahel looked over his shoulder to see Crowley standing in the doorway to the kitchen, staring at the book in Harahel’s hands.

Harahel looked down at the book again, and then at the succeeding volumes, still sitting snugly on their shelf. “What are these?”

Crowley hesitated for a moment and then walked over, pausing only a metre from Harahel.

“They’re journals. Aziraphale wrote them when…when he was mortal.”

Harahel looked up and saw that Crowley’s eyes were resting heavily on the journal in Harahel’s hands, his gaze unwavering.

After a moment of silence, Harahel cautiously held the book out to Crowley, who took it gratefully and closed it in one smooth motion, sweeping the handwritten pages out of sight.

Though Harahel had seen Crowley handle books with care before—undoubtedly a tendency acquired by a long association with Aziraphale—for the first time Harahel saw true reverence in Crowley’s fingers as he carefully smoothed down the top corner of the journal, the one with the ‘1’ written in gold ink.

“He…he was losing his memory, when he was mortal,” Crowley said after a long moment, looking down at the journal in his hands. “He wanted to write down everything he remembered, before he…” Crowley didn’t finish the thought, and despite the calm, matter-of-fact tone of his words the emotion was clear enough on his face, the echo of a grief past but not forgotten.

Crowley forced a wry smile, the corner of his mouth pushing his cheek up as he continued to look down at the journal. “He worked backwards through his life, from Midfarthing to Eden. It took him years to write them all.”

Harahel turned and ran his eyes over the row of journals, his gaze settling on the very last volume. “…So Eden’s the beginning?” he asked cautiously.

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed.

 _Eden_ , Harahel thought. Briefly, he remembered how loath Aziraphale had been to report for guard duty at the Garden, and how frightened he’d been to be reassigned to Earth upon his demotion. Eden was where everything had started to fall apart, where the die had been cast that had caused Harahel and Aziraphale to part ways. Eden was the end of their story, and had been for some time now; but, apparently for Aziraphale, it had been the start of another.

Harahel nodded numbly.

Crowley was still holding the first journal, and he very carefully slid it back onto its shelf. His fingers fanned out slightly as he did so, fingertips briefly brushing the adjacent journals, as though he needed to reassure himself of their presence.

When Crowley finally pulled his hand away, he continued standing there, eyes following Harahel’s gaze to the bookshelf. It took Harahel a moment to recognise his behaviour, one so often favoured by himself: Crowley was guarding the journals, hovering protectively in case Harahel should act in some way that would endanger them.

“Hm,” Harahel said, or something like it, his gaze moving to Crowley in surprise.

Aziraphale chose that moment to come down the stairs, tugging on his askew shirt collar and grinning as he saw Crowley and Harahel waiting for him.

“Harahel, good to see you! Are we ready to go, my dear?”

“Yep,” Crowley agreed, finally moving away from the bookcase so he could give his husband a quick kiss on the cheek. “You took long enough.”

“Oh, like I’m to blame for that,” Aziraphale said, a teasing note in his voice.

Crowley smirked as he moved towards the door, Aziraphale pausing to give Harahel a warm smile of greeting. “How’ve you been? How’s the library?”

“The same as always,” Harahel said, allowing Aziraphale to lead him towards the door. “Except there are an increasing number of would-be patrons, and I’m afraid I’ve had to let some of them in.”

“Good Lord. Are they being careful with the books?”

“Rest assured they remain under my watchful eye.”

Aziraphale made a noise halfway between approval and horror, expression torn. He cleared his throat, clearly trying to think of a less distressing topic. “Have you had a chance to read the book I gave you last time? The one by Ambrose Harper?”

“Yes,” Harahel replied, recalling the peculiar volume. “It was…imaginative.”

Crowley chuckled as he opened the cottage door, and Aziraphale shot him a stern look before replying.

“Well, it is fiction. We’ll have to find you some more like it today. Fiction is…a bit different than what the library usually has, but it can be quite fun to read.”

“Indeed,” Harahel agreed as he followed Aziraphale out of the cottage.

The Bentley was already waiting for them in the drive, and Harahel found himself only slightly dreading the experience of riding in it. Now that he’d done it a couple of times, it was becoming almost enjoyable. Almost.

They paused beside the vintage automobile for a moment, Crowley reaching towards Aziraphale so he could fix the back of his collar, which still wasn’t lying flat, and that was when God strolled by with a fishing pole resting against one shoulder.

For a moment Harahel could only blink at the figure, who noticed them right away and detoured from the edge of the road to stride up the drive towards them.

“Father Gilbert!” Aziraphale greeted, raising a hand in acknowledgement.

“Where are you three off to?” Father Gilbert asked congenially as he neared them.

“Hay-on-Wye,” Aziraphale supplied. “It has some fabulous bookshops we’re going to show my friend Harahel, who’s here visiting.” He gestured at the librarian.

Harahel, for his part, just stared at the man in front of them, absolutely certain it was the same priest he’d run across in Heaven several decades ago, the one who’d been so much more than he appeared.

“…Father?”

The priest turned his attention to Harahel and beamed, stepping forward to shake his hand. “I’m happy to see you here, Harahel. I trust all’s well?”

Harahel could only stare at the priest in bafflement, barely returning the handshake as Father Gilbert turned his attention to Crowley.

“Beautiful day for a drive. And the Tree’s doing just fine, before you ask.”

The corner of Crowley’s mouth turned up into a wry smile. “And the pears?”

“Beautiful and uneaten.”

“Ah, just the way I like them.”

Harahel watched this exchange in utter befuddlement, attempting to reconcile the smiles and friendly remarks with the knowledge of what he had discovered in Heaven.

“I don’t mean to hold you up,” Father Gilbert said, adjusting his fishing pole and including all of them in his words. “Just wanted to return something.” He patted Aziraphale on the arm.

“Er,” Aziraphale said, and blinked.

Father Gilbert took a step back, beaming at the three of them. “Well, see you soon,” he said, and turned and strolled down the drive, whistling slightly.

For a long moment the trio just stared after him, and then Crowley shook himself and glanced at his watch.

“Well, we’d better get going. Harahel, do you mind riding in the back?”

“…not at all,” Harahel said, perplexed. He reached over to open one of the Bentley’s rear doors, eyes still on the receding figure of Father Gilbert. “That priest—do you…know him?”

“Yeah, he’s the local vicar,” Crowley said unconcernedly, walking around the car’s bonnet towards the driver’s door. “He’s a bit overly friendly, in my opinion, but that’s the Church for you.”

Aziraphale hummed agreement, but when Harahel glanced over at him he looked a little distracted, and it was a moment before he opened the passenger’s door in front of him.

“And you’ve…known him long?” Harahel asked as he sank into his own seat, still struggling to work out exactly what was happening here.

“Ages,” Crowley replied, starting the Bentley with a wave of his hand and backing out of the drive.

“And that’s…?”

“Since we moved here, really. What’d that be, Aziraphale—forty, fifty years ago?” Crowley glanced over at Aziraphale as he put the car in first gear. “Hey, angel, you all right?”

“I—I’m not—” Aziraphale began haltingly.

They were rolling forward now, but slowly, Crowley glancing between Aziraphale and the narrow country road.

Harahel glanced over his shoulder and out the rear window at where the figure of Father Gilbert was walking steadily away from them, the fishing pole jutting up over one shoulder swaying back and forth slightly.

When Harahel turned back to the front, he saw Aziraphale looking at him over his own shoulder, expression quizzical, lips slightly parted as though to ask a question. Their eyes met, and Harahel saw a strange mix of confusion and recognition in them. Then Aziraphale blinked, and it was as though he were seeing Harahel for the first time.

“Oh,” he said. And then: “Oh! _…Harahel.”_

Harahel gave Aziraphale a slightly uncertain smile, and Aziraphale’s mouth actually fell open. He moved his hand to the place on his arm where Father Gilbert had touched him, surprise etched across his features. Then his eyes moved past Harahel, out the rear window and towards the figure slowly strolling away from them.

Aziraphale reached over and touched Crowley on the arm.

“Stop the car.”

Crowley glanced at Aziraphale worriedly but did as he was bid, the Bentley slowly rolling to a standstill. “What’s wrong?”

Aziraphale locked eyes with Harahel for a moment, and then he turned his head towards his partner.

“Crowley, my dear,” Aziraphale said calmly, “don’t you think it’s about time we had a nice little chat with Father Gilbert?”

 

The End!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You could almost say Father Gilbert’s acting… _fishy_. *cackles*


End file.
